On Sundays
by Xix Crane
Summary: A grown Gustave, back from a long trip, miscalculates and comes home a little too early. He catches a glimpse of the sweet joy that his mother and father share on Sundays.


_Written for a writing prompt: E/C, a kiss in joy_

"Hello? Hello?!" Gustave sprinted through the enormous house, thrilled to finally be back home after so many months wandering abroad, and was a bit perturbed that not one single servant was there to greet him, let alone his mother and father. Walking back to the main staircase, he suddenly paused - _Of course!_ he realized; _it's Sunday_.

Sundays in his early childhood were days when he, his mother, and the man he grew up thinking was his real father, the Vicomte de Chagny, would go to mass in the morning and then spend the rest of the day walking down the boulevards or in the Bois and then perhaps taking a nice meal somewhere in the city. Then came the great upheaval - his mother's grievous injury, his father's abandonment, and suddenly finding themselves under the strange and frightening protection of the enigmatic Mr. Y.

Their Sunday routine came back, but this time New York was swapped for Paris, Phantasma in place of the Bois, and Mr. Y instead of the Vicomte. After the Vicomte's death a few years later, Sundays changed once more. After mass, his mother would drop Gustave off with their trusted friends and not collect him sometime much later in the day, many times not until Monday morning. When he was younger, he was childishly jealous; he wanted his mother all to himself at all times. As he grew a little older, he understood why she wanted time apart, why she set Sundays aside, especially after he realized that she and Mr. Y had grown quite close.

Mr. Y was affectionate, but in his own way. He was prim and proper, so much so that Gustave and his mother teased him mercilessly for the way he fussed over tiny details. But he never had a cruel word, never had a short temper, and always met their every need, many times before they even realized they needed anything at all. He was, however, cripplingly shy and wasn't the type to go for overt displays of romantic affection. He gave Christine a chaste yet sweet kiss at the altar when they were married and she could make him blush quite deeply with a simple peck on the cheek, something more for her to tease him about.

Gustave knew that their Sundays was their time to be together without judgment. After a lifetime of being stared at, Mr. Y finally had the means to have privacy and have a world away from prying eyes. On Sundays, after Christine returned from mass, the servants would be gone and she and Mr. Y had space to simply be. Gustave never begrudged them their Sundays.

Realizing he had miscalculated due to the time difference and the whirlwind of his hectic schedule, he sought to slip away before they realized he had intruded on their private time. On the landing of the grand staircase, he stopped; outside of the large window, he spotted them. They were quite a ways away, far out in the garden. He saw that the Mr. Y, the man he knew now was his real father, was just in shirtsleeves, his favored fiddle in one hand, bow in the other, and without his wig and his ever-present mask.

He never allowed Gustave to see his face again, not after that first disastrous time. It had been a strange little point of contention for Gustave; after all, hadn't he been his capable assistant, his partner, his own son? Gustave learned to not ask and not judge, to simply try to understand that even if he kept his true face from Gustave, Mr. Y loved him very, very dearly. He was now too far away for Gustave to see any details, just to see that the sun was on his bare face, and that he was smiling.

Gustave's mother was in a simple wisp of a dress and barefoot. She had obviously collected several flowers from the garden and woven them into her hair; they bloomed like little fairy lights in her dark curls. She was laughing, sticking a few daisies into Mr. Y's sparse grey hairs and trying to get them to stay put. They looked for all the world like two children playing underneath a flawless blue sky.

Mr. Y grasped her around her slim waist and gave her a twirl, ending with a joyous, unrestrained kiss. They broke away, giggling once more, and he took up the fiddle, playing some old folk tune. His mother began to sing along in her native tongue, some lilting, cheerful melody Gustave had heard her singing to herself many times before.

It was here Gustave turned away and slipped quietly and quickly out of the house. He brought his car around the drive, out the front gate (remembering to lock it up tight), and out to a field where he spent the night under the stars, waiting for Monday to come. Monday morning, he would return to his home. The servants would be there to greet him. His parents would be surprised and delighted to see he'd returned early. His mother would have her hair gathered up in a dignified coif and his father would be completely buttoned up in his formal clothing, his mask firmly in place, and if Christine leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek, he would lower his chin, turn bright pink, and give her a gentle pat on the hand, as smitten and as shy as a schoolboy.


End file.
